Moths and Flames (Book I of The Petals that Fall series)
by Meyers Marie
Summary: Their world exists beyond titles, duty, and honor. In dark times, where rulers marry not for love but country, and alliances shift due to political and religious power, they are moths flying through darkness, searching for flames. But will they dance around the fires or let themselves be burned? Re-written. Older Mary, Bash, Francis. Frary. Mash. Fralivia. T/M for suggestive themes
1. Foreward

Title: The Petals that Fall

Category: TV Shows » Reign

Author: Marie Meyers

Language: English, Rating: Rated: T/M

Genre: Romance/Fantasy/Drama/Supernatural

Summary: Their world exists beyond titles and stations, beyond duty and honor. In dark times, where rulers marry not for love but for country and alliances are mercurial due to shifts in political power and religion, they are simply moths flying through darkness, searching for flames. A dark drama, romance novel about love in the midsts of war. Book One of [the] THE PETALS THAT FALL trilogy, re-written and re-released. Rated T/M for suggestive and explicit themes.

Characters: Sebastian (Mary, Francis, Olivia)

Disclaimer/Letter from the Author ( **Please Read** ):

Foreward 

Dear readers,

This is Marie Meyers, author of _Reign_ fanfic,  The Petals that Fall. Recently, I was invited to take part of a fandom competition. Because of this I have decided to re-write and re-release The Petals that Fall.

For those of you whom have read the original story, there will be many changes. I hope you once again follow the journey of Bash, Mary, Francis, and Olivia as they - this time - not only battle through the wars within themselves but also against political and religious unrest.

This time, this story's protagonist will be Sebastian, and will explore his faith, heart, and strong will in a more complete way. Will he battle the darkness within him or let it pull him under?

This story will be a supernatural fantasy story, based off actual historic facts.

I hope you all follow me on my journey as I recreate and redefine the word of _TPTF_ and Sebastian Poitiers and the many pivotal characters in his life and journey through darkness and love.

Note as well, that this will be the only disclaimer and LFTA until this re-release is completed.

The release of new chapters will be systematic, with new chapters posted every Thursday, Saturday, and Monday of each week.

There will also be many short chapters. This revision will be more prolific, and focusing more on writing content and style. Many chapters will give up a prose like feel. But, there will also be long and mid length chapters as well.

Should you ever be curious about the original story or how it varies from this revision, there is a link for the original story on my profile.

Also, as a note, I have IG, Twitter, Tumblr, and WordPress, as well as Facebook. Though I don't use Facebook or Tumblr very often, should you wish to do so, you may follow my IG, WordPress, and Twitter at **meyermariea**. You may follow my Tumblr at **jusslex** , and my FB at **Lexi Marie** (though good luck finding me there, as I always have difficulties.) I always post when I have written a new chapter or story, so you are more than welcome to follow and stay updated.

You are also more than welcome to shoot me a PM on FF or an E-mail at **meyermariea**. _No_ , it is **not** a Google mail account. If you have any inquiries or words to share of any kind, I would love to hear from you.

 _Reign's_ characters and original plot do not belong to me. However this fanfiction does. Please ask permission before any reuse of any part of this fandom. If you happen to enjoy it that immensely, please share this story so others may read it, and help make it a success. And review!

©Marie Meyers, 2013-2015


	2. Chapter 1

[Book I. First Chapter.]

Long ago, a great and vast land existed. It spread from the Atlantic Ocean in both the North and West, the Mediterranean Sea, Pyrenees, and Po Valley in the South, and Rhine River and the Alps in the east.

Within this great and vast land, a great and resourceful people lived. Migrants, descendants from the age of bronze, these people existed on the land in relative harmony, having conquered areas of Rome so as to live undisputed.

They existed in three tribes: the _Belgae_ , the _Aquitani_ , and the _Celtae_. Though their culture and language varied, their joint military strength was unrivaled. They coexisted in an universal understanding. And their days were peaceful.

This great and vast land was known as _Gaul_.

The three tribes of Gaul, each with their own societies, kings, councils, and armies cohabitated through their shared faith. This faith was _polytheist_ and _animistic_ ; for they believed in many ancient gods as well as in the belief that all created things had spirit.

However when the Romans, under the military authority of Julius Ceasar, struck Gaul and reclaimed the stolen Roman territories, Gaul was subsequently taken under Rome and became part of its empire. The land of Gaul was divided and their religion rejected, its cultural identity lost as it became a Gallo-Roman state.

Eventually with time, and through the great war of Rome, the people of Gaul - as well as other countries once under Roman control - were able to reassemble.

But their universal understanding - their faith - was lost to their succeeding generations, buried by Roman influence and moreso forgotten.

However, some still remembered the old teachings of Gaul; and, with hopes to restore their faith in a rapidly changing and adapting world, formed Christian dualist faiths, faiths that practiced the ancient Gaelic religions in secret under the guise of Christianity.

This was called _Catharism_.

However, labelled as an assembly of Satan, the Cathars' religion and old teachings of Gaul were made forbidden by the Pope and by ruling kings and queens.

Those who practiced catharism or the ancient Gaelic teachings were hunted and burned for their beliefs, and the Pope and Christian followers labelled them _heretics_.

In fear of persecution, many who believed in the Gaelic religion denied the faith and embraced Christianity; others chose to hide, and practice their faith in secret.

But though the descendants of the tribes of Gaul lived in exile, hope remained.

This hope, a story passed down from the descendants of elders. A whispered prophesy of old:

" _And there shall come a time when Gaul shall be no more._

 _Her people, driven from the light and into darkness._

 _Yet from the ashes of the new world,_

 _a son of man shall come,_

 _and to the people of the ancient world, he will save them._

 _This man shall be the chosen one;_

 _he who shall lead the children of Gaul out of exile,_

 _out from The Darkness,_

 _and return them to the light."_

It is said that, when nearly three centuries of exile passed, that man would be born into the world.

The child would be born not only in light, but also in darkness, with the blood of Gaul in his veins.

He would grow living not in a physical exile, but his heart would be exiled, condemned into darkness.

The man of both the ancient and new world would return to the people of Gallia, the mark of his return through sacrifice and the spill of his blood.

And he would deliver them.


	3. Chapter 2

_**Bash**_

"She comes."

Sebastian Poitiers looked around at the gossiping court as he walked to stand beside his mother and father.

He saw her first. Her raven strands of hair swaying in the breeze as her eyes eagerly scanned the crowd, the ground, the land; the court. As he put his hands behind his back, he couldn't stop the instant flutter in his stomach, or the small quirk of his lips as he regarded her. Queen Mary of Scotland. He hadn't expected her to look quite like that – older, regal, beautiful. It contrasted, in so many ways, with the girl from his memories. Though their beauty was one thing that had remained the same.

He watched as Mary and her friends, the ladies-in-waiting, paused in front of the crowd of the French Court. One of the girls leaned in to Mary and whispered, and Mary's head snapped up, straight into his direction.

His heart skipped in his chest. He felt himself hold his breath, waiting for her eyes to meet his. She looked at him for a moment, her brows raising then furrowing together, before her eyes left his.

Bash curiously watched Mary shook her head and whispered to the girl beside her. What was that about? But more than that…

Didn't she recognize him? Didn't she remember? Though, he supposed it didn't matter either way, if she hadn't. In fact, it would be better for both of them if she didn't remember who he was.

Yet, despite these thoughts, the disappointment fluttered in his stomach rebelliously.

His brother stepped forward, and Sebastian remembered why Mary had returned to France in the first place.

"Mary."

Bash stood silently, working his jaw subconsciously. The voice that had spoken her name was not his own, but instead his brother's, Francis, the dauphin of France. Though unlike himself, Bash knew that Francis did not wish to see the Scottish queen. Staring at his brother's face and seeing the discomfort there (however slight), Bash sent Francis a dosage of courage.

Before the whole French Court stood the woman who was meant to be his brother's future queen. Bash shook away the envy that whispered to him after the thought.

His eyes drifted back to Mary, whose head was humbly bowed in curtsey. When she lifted her gaze, Bash watched as her lips parted.

An uneasy feeling passed through him and he redirected his gaze, brows furrowing when he saw his brother's reaction mirroring Mary's own.

Was that uneasy feeling what was felt when one noticed an instant attraction?

Like the uncanny bated breaths being shared between the two royals before him?

"Francis." Mary's voice was of delighted surprise.

It was so obvious, what was transpiring, and so heavy within the air that Bash felt that he could draw his sword, and cut it.

He watched Francis bow his head slightly. "Welcome back to French Court."

Mary smiled.

Bash looked to the ground as he flattened his lips into a thin line. He recognized that smile on her lips. It was the one he had dreaded seeing the most, because it was the one smile she had never showed him. It was the one smile that was only reserved for his brother.

He didn't know anymore, what he had been expecting by showing his presence at her arrival. Had he wanted her to throw her arms around him like they were children still, knowing full well that they weren't?

His eyes darkened with envy as his mind swirled with the greedy desires of his heart.

Closing his eyes at the sight of Mary's hand being placed within Francis' – at the flutter of her dress skirts and the rich, vanilla smell filling his nostrils (so identifiably Mary's sent, as Bash knew her scent by heart) as she passed him – he tried in vain again to will his forbidden desires away.


	4. Chapter 3

_**~Bash~**_

When he thought back to the days he had spent with her, they felt so surreal to him. Like a dream. Their shared laughter, her open, child acceptance – it had been the thing that had changed him. That had gave him hope when he felt like he didn't have any at all.

So, could he be faulted for feeling a little bitter that she'd happily walked away with Francis, hand in hand and without even a second glance or spared word for him?

Bash sat in his mother's room, drinking a malt liquor that he acquired from one of the taverns in a nearby town. His mother rushed about, readying herself in a gold satin dress with matching earrings, clicking her tongue at him in disapproval.

"What really were you expecting, my son? For her to shamelessly associate with the bastard son of the king in front of the whole court? You aren't children anymore, Sebastian. You won't simply get slaps on the wrists anymore. Rumors will spread and reputations will be damaged. Being too familiar with the Scottish queen – though you are friends from childhood – could kill you. Besides that, would she even remember you? It's been many, many years. She's probably forgotten you Look at the way she and Francis looked at one another."

Bash sighed in dejection as he brought the flask to his lips, "You're right, mother. As always."

His mother frowned.

"Please quit sulking!" she asked of him, coming forward to gently ruffle his hair. "You told me you didn't love her."

"How could I possibly? It's been years."

"Yet you're so sour about this."

"I just…" Bash shook his head, sighing. "We were friends. That's all, mother. I promise."

"I don't want you to end up as I have, Bash. Don't fall for a royal. Don't fall for a _ruler_. You will only know bitterness. You will only know pain."

Bash looked up at his mother, and placed his hands over hers – they were trembling, stilled in his hair – "You won't lose your only child. And I won't fall in love with her. I do not want to claim her; she's meant for Francis. She loves him. I only yearn for the kinship we once shared. Nothing more than that. So please don't worry."

His mother gave a watery smile, "It will be better," she said, squeezing his hands before withdrawing her own, "if you stay far from that girl. Friends or otherwise, you shall be ruined by her all the same. Do tread carefully, my son. Elizabeth's wedding – don't forget to attend it."

He smiled lightly, but it faded as soon as his mother had left him alone inside the bedroom.

He replayed his words in his head, and twisted his face into a rueful expression, drinking silently in the dark.


	5. Chapter 4

_**~Mary~**_

Mary walked the long corridors of the French Court eagerly. She hadn't been there in so long. With only a few hours before the royal wedding, Mary and her friends had decided to explore the castle; for one always saw things different when older.

The castle was different. The once narrowing staircases that seemed to stretch for miles now seemed so short. The walls that once towered over her were now so small. But the wonder was just the same. Every nook. Every corner. If anything, for Mary, it was even more magical; walking up the winding staircases that she and Francis once played on.

She felt her cheeks heat. Francis. The years had done him quite well. He grew into his legs, and had even told him so, and —she almost smacked herself: she couldn't believe she had said that!—he now stood tall and proud. Of course, he had grown into other things too. Like his eyes. And his voice. And his hair...

As she reached the top of the staircase, she couldn't contain her excitement. The hall she found herself in was the very hall where she and Francis used to sleep when they were children. In fact, she could practically see the door to her childhood bedroom. She placed one hand against the wall, trailing it along the wood of the doors as she found herself lost in memories. In her mind, all her memories were happy, colorful pebbles that seemed to float on top the water; her memories were water lilies – precious, fragile, and commanding. They had a certain beauty of their own, that gave Mary hope.

As Mary's hand brushed the door of her old room, she gave a smile to nothing in particular then placed her second hand on the door and pushed it open. Francis looked up abruptly, his hunched form freezing as he leaned over the table, one hand clutching some sort of tool. Mary placed a shaking hand on her heart.

"Francis! You startled me."

"Mary..." Francis said slowly, as if he was trying to decide whether he were imagining something, "Mary," he said more stern. "Why...are you up here?"

Mary blinked. "What do you mean, _'why?'_ These used to be our old rooms, don't you remember?"

"Of course I do," Francis said. "But they aren't now. So likewise you shouldn't be here. No one comes up here or uses these rooms for anything."

"Except for you."

Francis faltered. "Well. Yes. I. I guess that's right."

Mary barely heard him; her eyes were drawn to the table he hunched over, and the tools in his hands. "What are you doing over there?" she asked, moving away from the door. She stepped into the room and stood beside Francis. "Are those swords?"

"Yes, actually. They are," Francis said slowly.

"Why are they up here?"

"I...I make them." Mary stared at him. A smile slowly made its to her lips.

"But why?" she asked, gently reaching around Francis to feel the cool metal of his weaponry.

"Because I am good at it, and because I want to be a great king."

"You will be a great king, however. There isn't a need for this," Mary motioned.

"I believe every king should have a skill, something that they are good at, and fall back on," Francis said to her.

"Leading is a skill, isn't it? Not a lot of people can lead a nation."

"I don't want a skill that defines me as a king. I want a skill that defines me as a man."

"I can milk a goat."

He paused.

"At least I know that if I ever lose the throne I'll have you to milk goats and my skill as a blacksmith," he muttered with a shake of his head.

Mary took a step back and frowned. She would protect him if there was an uproar; wasn't that going to be her job? "That wouldn't happen, Francis. If we ever had to leave the court, we could just go to Scotland, and rule there. I would look after you."

Francis looked up at her, and Mary got lost in the deepest eyes; she felt she couldn't breathe. There was a look on Francis' face; a look that she had yet to seem him use, that made her heart beat too fast and her knees weak. It wasn't feral. It was more than kind. It was something.

Something like kindness but weighted with something ten times stronger.

And then it was gone. Mary stared at Francis confused as he dropped his gaze and cleared his throat.

"Yes, well. We should probably get out of here."

He didn't move. Francis stared at her expectantly.

 _He wants me to leave him_ , she realized. But she sensed it was more than that. So she nodded.

"Right – I should explore more of the castle elsewhere. It's a nice day to be outside." She smiled at him gently as she made her way to the door.

Closing the door softly behind her, Mary halted for a second, ear by the door frame, listening for...anything.

Then she heard it; an audible and shuddering breath that made hers hitch. She leaned her head against the door, right hand caressing the handle, and closed her eyes. She counted to seven, willing either Francis or herself to fling the door open and take one another into each other's arms. At seven she shook her head clear, and smiled again. Then she stepped away.

She made her way back down the winding staircase, a fluttering sensation in her stomach. What was that? _What was that?_ Oh, Heaven help her. It seemed that her nights of yearning weren't in vain after all; surely he remembered all they'd shared. Surely, he still loved her…!

She missed a step in her day dreams, and letting out a startled cry, she shut her eyes, bracing herself as she felt herself falling forward…

Strong arms wrapped themselves around her, keeping her from falling. It felt surreal to Mary, as if a dream, and she wondered what she had did to be so lucky. Normally, she would have fallen on her face.

Flustered to be in the arms of a stranger and embarrassed that there was a witness to her gracelessness, she stammered, "Thank you so much! I wasn't being careful; excuse me for -"

When she pulled away, she found herself looking into a pair of startlingly blue eyes. Eyes that reminded her of the waters surrounding her castle at home. Eyes she felt as if she'd seen before.

Her eyes roamed his face; darting from his eyes to his unruly brown hair, to the sharp contours of his face, and to the light stubble on his face and sharp jaw line. His lips were full, the adam's apple of his neck bobbing slightly underneath her probing gaze. The muscles of his arms were hidden by his doublet, but Mary had felt the bulge of muscles there when he had caught her fall.

She realized then, that she had ogled him shamelessly. Cheeks heating, she snapped her gaze back to his face and was meant with an amused expression and raised brow she recognized all too well. She opened her mouth to apologize for her boldness, but he spoke first.

"Milady, are you alright?"

She found herself caught off guard by the sound, and faltered again. Realizing this, she said quickly, "Yes! I, I'm fine. Thanks to you. Without you there I would have fallen."

"It's a good thing that I was here to save you," he replied, his lips curved slightly into a polite smile, and Mary's heart hammered in her chest as memories flooded her mind at his words.

 _Who...said...I...want...to...save...you...?_

 _But...won't you always save me...?_

"You," she simply, trying to put her amazement into words but not quite knowing how, "You -"

"Milady," he interjected, "I must be going. Make sure you are more careful." His eyes flickered beyond her and towards the secluded hall where she had just met Francis. She watched as something flashed in his eyes, and they narrowed, gaze darkened as a frown seemed to settle on his features. Mary blinked, taken aback by the dark expression, which seemed to have left his features as quickly as it came. Yet there was a suddenly cold firmness with the way he regarded her, which had not been there previously.

"Please excuse me," he said, bowing once as he turned on his heel. Mary watched him, mind reeling.

She had perceived it as her eyes playing tricks on her when she had seen him greet her on her arrival. There had been an inkling of memories, but she had dismissed the notion, believing that there was no way he had grown to be so handsome.

But it seemed as if indeed, the boy she'd seen earlier that morning had been him. There was a flutter in her chest at the thought as she watched him walk away, his gait tall and broad, looking so much more than she had ever expected him to.

Mary, however, was perplexed by his treatment towards her. Surely he hadn't forgotten her, right?

 _Bash,_ she thought, dumbfounded, _what in the world was that about?_


	6. Chapter 5

_**Francis**_

Francis felt his breath hitch when Mary passed him. He held it fast; the scents of honey, vanilla, and lavender swirling all around him and clouding his senses.

He didn't watch her walk away, he merely waited, breath held, for the soft click that signaled she'd gone. Then, as if he had been a man struggling under water, Francis let his breath leave him. Hard. Fast.

She smelled so good. It was a weakness for him. How girls smelled. He loved a girl that smelled tantalizing. Mary smelled like more.

It wasn't as if he had never been with a woman before. He'd been with plenty; a girl's scent wasn't necessarily something that caught him off guard.

But Mary. Mary. Oh, Heaven help him. He didn't remember her smelling like that. How could he of not noticed when he greeted her at the castle gates?

He had noticed everything else. Like how her eyes lit up when they met his own. How soft the skin on the back of her hand was when brushed beneath his lips. How silky and soft her hair looked; her soft curves; how she grew into her voice.

Mary was beautiful. Perhaps beyond that if he were being honest. But he had seen beautiful before. There wasn't anything that separated her too much from anyone else; from his current lover. From his past ones.

Then there was that smell. That honey/lavender/vanilla seduction. That natural allure that he was sure she didn't even notice herself. That wasn't the same as any other girl he'd had vie for him.

It dawned on him that perhaps there was more to his fiancé than what he thought. Something...some imprint that she leaves in her wake, that no one could overlook.

Of course, if he were being honest with himself, she always had that charm, even when they were both children. Memories of their childhood with one another came rushing back for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. He sighed and ran a hand through his disheveled blonde hair.

 _Fiancée..._ the thought was like the hilt of a sword into his stomach. He could feel the distaste rolling off his tongue. That's right. She and he were supposed to be getting married. Whether he liked it or not. To make an "alliance". A pact with Scotland. Marry Queen Mary of Scots and rule France as king with her as his consort bride. No choice. No discussion. For the sake of a kingdom or two.

Of course, he knew it wasn't just him in the marriage. Mary also had to marry him for her kingdom. But maybe he didn't want to marry without love. He saw how his father and mother were. How estranged their union was and how he favored Sebastian and his mother, Diane, over any other. He didn't resent his half-brother for that or anything, but he had decided long ago that he wouldn't follow in his father's footsteps. If he were to marry, Francis knew that he wanted it to mean something. He wanted it to be real. For both his people and his heart.

And there was nothing real about an arranged marriage.

And nothing real about he and Mary. So what if she was beautiful, sweet, and smelled good?

Maybe if it had been five years before, when he had been waiting for her. When he remembered his vows to her and had meant them with every fiber of his being and with every palpitation of his heart. But things had changed for him his fourteenth summer. He had fallen in love his fourteenth summer. And now, he was eighteen years old, and those memories of that love had never faded. The girl he had fallen for, neither a queen or royal, and regardless of the memories he and Mary may share, the memories of his first love were stronger. Meant everything. Meant so much more than adolescent naivety and infatuation.

 _Snap out of it_ , Francis, he told himself. He gave himself a firm shake of his head. _Snap out of it_. He combed his hand through his hair and realized he was shaking. She did that. Like she were some sort of witch. Is it possible to be bewitched by some girl who just barely re-met him? Of course not. How ridiculous. Magic was a bunch of cheap tricks. It wasn't something he believed in.

He left the old room and slowly descended down the stairs. Her smell was still lingering. Not only in the hall, but in his mind.

As Francis made his way to his quarters, he paused near the hall that led to Mary's. He slowly walked towards it, then stopped, realizing that in just a few more feet he'd be in her hall and right there before her.

It frightened Francis, that although he had just told himself that he and Mary were not meant for one another, he was yearning to go to her. When she had told him that she would take care of him, it pulled at his heart. She would be a loving wife, and queen; she gave people her heart, and they were warmed by it. The power she had in her eyes, that earnestness, almost had him smitten.

But he wanted love. Not its illusion.

Francis clenched his jaw and turned on his heels, leaving to go to his own hall. When he approached his door, he had never felt as much relief as in the moment. Finally. A moment where he could just get away from all the distractions. He opened his door quickly and slipped inside. He didn't turn right away, placing his forehead against the cool wood.

"Francis."

The voice made his heart stop. Instant apprehension gripped him as he felt his muscles tense. He turned around quickly.

"Natalia. Why are you here? You know when we meet."

"I wanted to see you." The dark-haired girl took a few steps towards him.

"What if you were seen?" Francis told her. He rushed to her, and placed his hands on her shoulders. "With the queen here, Natalia..."

"No one saw me. They never see me." She reached a hand up to stroke his cheek. Francis flinched, then took her hand from his face, and held in his own.

"We can't. If we are found out-"

Natalia pressed her lips to his. "Shh, Francis. We won't be. We never will be," she declared, and Francis stared into her eyes, seeing that she meant her promise. Seeing more than he knew he could return. He inhaled quietly, and her smell hit him; roses. She always smelled of roses, and before he loved it. However now, the smell that haunted him was one more herbal, and much sweeter.

"Never, Francis," she repeated, and he nodded. Taking that as a hint, he guessed, Natalia pressed her lips to his again, leaving him one chaste kiss after another, until he felt a need to respond to her grow within him. Francis found himself threading his hands around her waist, and pulling her to him desperately. Whether it was because of her, or because of something-or someone-else, he didn't want to say.

As Natalia's hands tugged his shirt gently from his trousers, there was a knock on his door. Francis began to pull away, but Natalia shook her head, and he halted, still kissing her. When the knock sounded again, he pushed her, albeit gently away from him, and put his finger to his lips. He then walked to the door.

It was Mary, beaming at him.

"Mary."

"Francis! ...May I come in? I have something-"

"What are you doing here?" he snapped at her. "I am busy."

The look she gave him was enough to freeze his heart. But he wouldn't let it. He wouldn't dare. He watched as the smile fell from her face.

"Next time, have yourself announced."

"But Francis, I found you something, for your knives and your swords, and-" she paused. "Why do you have the door cracked like that? Is someone in there with you?" she moved her head to see around him, but Francis simply straightened more against the door so she could not. He watched as she pursed her lips.

"We are to be married. That is not how you should speak to me," she said slowly.

Francis stared hard at her, guilt assaulting him, and a strong desire to apologize, fall at her feet, and beg forgiveness from her. He didn't know why it was there, and he cursed himself. She would not do this to him. She would not make him feel this way.

"You're right, we are to be married," he said angrily to her, "And here's a tip for you, if you are to be the queen: Kings do not answer to their wives." Without waiting to see her expression, lest he kiss it away, he shut the door in her face.

He leaned against it; he felt weakened. When he heard her walk away, he rubbed his hands over his face, balling them into fists. _Dammit. Dammit. Damn you, Mary Stuart._

He hadn't meant to sat those things to her. He hadn't meant to hurt her. They were childhood sweethearts once.

It dawn on Francis then, why he seemed so attracted. Because of the special bond they'd once shared and because of the young, adolecent Scot that had a reserved spot in his heart. It wasn't love at first side as it had been three and a half years ago. Simply inklings of old and superficial feelings, feelings that took form in a more adult way now that he was older, wiser, and less innocent.

He felt more than heard Natalia make her way to him. She tried to wrap her arms around his back. "It's okay," she crooned. "Francis, she is gone now, and it is just you and I again. Like it should be."

Francis looked down at her snuggled against his chest, and for a brief second, he saw Mary in Natalia's eyes. He shut his eyes quickly and shook his head, speaking quietly.

"Get out."

He felt Natalia tense against him. "Don't be silly."

"I'm not. Natalia, you must go."

"I don't understand."

He shook his head again. He reached for her arms, and disentangled himself from her. "You. Need. To. Leave." He stood away from the door, then opened it just enough for her to slip through.

Natalia stared at him. "You told me she would never affect us. You said-"

"Natalia!" Francis yelled. "Get out, or get hauled out. Just go."

Natalia lowered her eyes. She stood there for a moment, but then she stalked past him, and out the door. Francis eagerly closed it.


	7. Chapter 6

_**?**_

They wore long white robes and ceremonial dresses, walking in groups, from the hidden village deep within the forest, to the large willow tree in the heart of the forest.

The wanderer was a woman with long brown hair. She held the hand of a small child, a little boy with short brown hair and big green eyes.

She was running from her Lord; a noble who desired her body and even went to far as to kill her husband and threaten the life of her child. She was a maid, and didn't have much to offer.

But the fair faced child had soft skin and the woman's countenance was more than pleasant on the eyes.

There would be so many uses for her. For her skin, her bones, her blood.

They waited for three nights, until the moon had waned in according to their rite. Her name – though she gave it, barely few committed it to their memory, for her stay would be a short one – was Lena, and her son was Jacques. Slowly, she began letting down her guard, slowly, Lena began feeling safe. On the third night, it seemed she finally believed them, that her Lord would not follow her so deep into the woods.

For why would he voluntarily meet his death?

In the night, when Lena slept, villagers gathered. Staring, calling her foolish.

 _Foolish girl, foolish girl; don't you know who lives inside this forest?_

They gave her wine; when she opened her eyes she found she couldn't speak. Found she couldn't move. Found them there, waiting. Watching. Smiling.

 _What is going on? What is happening? Why can't I move? Help me. Help me!_

"But we are helping you, Lena. We are setting you free from your worldly burdens. Do you think you could running forever? Hiding forever? Surely, your Lord would find you eventually."

 _But I'm safe here! You told me I was safe here!_

"Of course, you and your son are safe from that Lord. But when did we say you were safe from us?"

She was paralyzed; so she didn't put up a fight when they took her from the tent. They took her deep into the forest, leading her son gently by the hand with promise of a great surprise. The great surprise they'd been whispering to him in his sleep.

They strung her up on a branch on the willow tree, tying her feet and hoisting her up so that she swung upside down.

 _No! What are you doing?! Stop!_

They circled her first, then formed rows. From their robes and dresses, they brought forth silver daggers.

 _What are you doing?! Why are you doing this?!_

A man approached her, dressed in the most beautiful ceremonial robe of all. It was black, with crimson embroidery shaped as Celtic knots. His eyes glittered in the dark, cold and calculating. His pale hand stretched forward as he bent down, and he captured Lena's chin between his thumb and index fingers. His fingers were cold on her skin. With his free hand he tucked loose tendrils of hair behind her ears.

He smiled, and it was a charming smile. Gentle. Excited. Predatory.

"Had you been a woman of Gaul, I might have taken you as my consort," the man said. "For you are truly beautiful. I see that they have, indeed, chosen the perfect sacrifice for me. Especially with that look of fear in your eyes.

"Lena, the Gods have graced every living thing with spirit. Every animal. Every plant. Every human. All things in this world has soul and it is because of the Gods that this is so. For giving us all life, we should be thankful to them, for creating this world. Yet, humans have denied them gratitude. Humans have forgotten them. And this, in turn, has caused them to curse our race. Curse the very hearth we tread upon.

"The members of this village, we are the children of the Gods. This land, this country, France, it belonged to us once. But we allowed it to be taken. The Gods they have not forgiven us for allowing their land to be taken.

"I am the one they have chosen. The one they've chosen to await our deliverer, just like the High Priest before me. When our deliver comes to us, we will take back the land that rightfully belongs to us."

 _You're…you're heretics? You're pagans? I…I don't care what you are! I have nothing to do with this! I –_

"—but that's where you're wrong, Lena," the high priest said gingerly. "Just for being born by those whose ancestors stole away our land, you are wrong. You see, we are cursed by The Darkness. And only through sacrifice can we appease the Gods. But not through just any sacrifice, but through the lives of those whom have betrayed us, and from the lives of those not born of Gallia. You understand now, don't you? Exactly where your place lies."

 _Please. Please don't do this._

And then, Lena saw him. Her son, behind the high priest.

 _What are you doing with my son? Let him go! Don't hurt him!_

"Lena," the high priest cupped her cheek and gently ushered Jacques forward. In his small hands, there was a silver dagger.

 _What...? Jacques..._

"You see, Lena, The Darkness is not some tribute to our Gods whom accept our sacrifice in the form of some great materialized spirit – _The Darkness_ is the curse upon our very souls. Our anger, our loneliness, our suppression. There's only one way to release it. We can only kill and hunt those that have caused this to befall us."

 _What are you doing? Give me my son! Don't hurt my son!_

The high priest chuckled, "I think you're misunderstanding the situation, Lena. We aren't going to hurt Jacques. We'd never hurt one of our children. Are you ready, Jacques, my boy?"

 _ **My boy.**_

Jacques stepped closer to Lena's paralyzed body, stepped closer to his mother.

 _Oh, no. Please…Jacques, my boy, my son…no! Please no!_

"Lena," the high priest chastised, "he is not your son anymore."

Jacques stabbed her first, and the rest of the villagers followed suit, stabbing her one after another, her paralyzed body unable to scream as she silently cried.

It didn't take long for Lena to die, as each villager took turns, gleefully relieving their anger and frustrations on her body. The high priest stood by, smiling, letting the villagers and Jacques have their fill.

 _Someday, the chosen one will be born into the world and he will save us from this hatred, Lena_ , he thought as he watched her blood drain out onto the ground. He held out his hands, catching her blood in his cupped palms as he brought them to his lips.

 _So I thank you for giving your life to The Darkness._


	8. Chapter 7

_**-Bash-**_

Sebastian trot alongside the woods, feeling something low in the pit of his stomach, hearing something call to him and usher him to flee at the same time. He stared hard, wishing that he could stare into its depths from his distance, and see every danger that lie inside it, and what those dangers were doing in that moment.

It was no secret, who and what lived in the Blood Wood, even if no one dared to discuss the topic aloud. He had grown up with the whispers, and with dark knowing. There was a name for his knowledge that some used, a name that would condemn him should it ever be uttered.

The air around the thicket was different than normal. More tense, more dangerous. The desires of his heart that he furiously and constantly suppressed threaten to spill themselves onto the hearth, almost as if answering a call from the Blood Wood itself. He sighed deeply, looking down, and shook his head. He was a son of the French Court. He may have been a bastard, but he still had reason to be strong. He would not let himself be drawn to the forest's darkness.

When he turned to face the castle, he saw a dark-haired girl sitting on a log, alone with her dog. It was Mary Stuart. Francis' fiancée, and future queen of France. His future queen.

Of course, Francis, Sebastian knew, had other thoughts and ideas about the marriage. It had nothing to do with age. Being eighteen, marriage was more than probable. In fact, his younger brother –and himself, for that matter—were at age where marriage was as good a thing as it ever could be, ripe and eligible. What bothered Francis was whether or not the marriage with Mary would be good for France. Sebastian knew that Francis had a strong love for his country, and his people. It was its interests above his own. Always. Marrying Mary, Francis sometimes told him, might not promise that, or the want to experience what it meant to truly love. Considering the fact that Francis had once loved another, he couldn't help but feel a bit of pity towards the young queen whose fiancé had a closed off heart.

Sebastian wondered when Francis would tell Mary how he didn't intend to marry her. Deep down, despite his sympathy for her, Bash hoped that she would give up her love for his brother once she realized it was futile.

Just then, it occurred to Sebastian that he was watching her. The way she sat on the log in good posture, how her long, dark tresses fell down her back. The way she pet her dog. She was very graceful, Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. He snorted at the thought as it contradicted the memories he had of her.

Sebastian almost felt as if he could just stand there, staring, and not mind it. Of course, that wasn't proper.

But she was different. She was more than just a queen to him.

He watched as Mary's dog snapped its head in the direction of the forest. It stuck its tongue out, panting. Then it barked, and ran; and the young queen ran after it.

"No, come back! Sterling! Don't go in there! Sterling!" As Mary's dog ran into the forest, Mary was right behind. And almost a length's way from Sebastian. Of course, he didn't believe she would go in there. The woods were not for the living—or the royal. He had told her as much plenty of times before. But it became evident, the closer and closer she got to him, that she didn't plan on halting. Sebastian quickly got off his steed and went after her.

"Don't go in there, Mary. Mary. Mary!" Sebastian reached for her, pulling her to him, and shook her gently. She startled. She hadn't noticed him.

Her startled brown eyes slid to his, widening in alarm before easing. They slid from his eyes to the contours of his face, as if trying to place where it was each sharp angle had come from. Her lips parted, and Sebastian realized how close they were, and how much closer he wanted them to be. Her gaze met his eyes again, a questioning look on her soft features.

"Young girls; royals— _queens_ —do not leave the castle alone."

"But my dog..." she murmured softly.

"It shall return." He searched her eyes. The beautiful brown eyes that he had secretly been longing to see for the last thirteen years. "Do not go into the woods," he said pointedly. "Do you hear me?"

He recognized the challenge that flashed in her eyes as well as the stubborn rebellion in her voice as she spoke.

She gave him a hard stare. "Why not?" she asked slowly. "What's in there?"

 _What's in there?_

He found himself lost in memories, remembering this very debate between the two of them as it had happened so many times before.

Yet just like before, the woods were a place best left alone. For anyone. Everyone. What was in those woods could kill any person. Any creature. He set his lips in a grim line, and her eyes flashed with that familiar trepidation as she asked,

"What is it? What is in those woods, besides my dog—whom I _would_ have caught, if you hadn't stopped me—?"

He wondered if she remembered him when her words held that stubborn and relentless inquisitiveness that he knew so well. He wondered if she remembered her similar arguments seven years shy a decade ago. He raised a brow at her prideful insistence of her dog and chose to say, flatly:

"Your dog will find its way back." He paused then, addressing—and deflecting—her main question. "There is food and water—shelter—at the castle; who wouldn't want to stay there?" He assessed her quickly, feeling his lips slide into a small frown as he regarded her.

"Except for perhaps...you?" Sebastian asked. "You'd rather be at the convent, would you—eating porridge and trudging through mud?"

He saw something flicker behind her eyes. She looked up into his own again, a smile beginning to grace her lips. "I happen to like how mud feels under foot."

"Take you back to the nuns; maybe for misbehaving," he said lightly. "You seem the type to have the penchant for causing trouble."

She placed a hand on her hip, and the corner of his eye was drawn to her curves. He eyed them quickly.

"You're cheeky," she told him.

"And you're upset about more than your dog taking a jaunt in the wild." She looked away again, and he added more softly, "What is it." A statement, not a question. Flowing so smoothly through his lips, that it surprised himself, for not any other reason other than the fact that she didn't seem to recognize him. He hoped she wouldn't be taken back. Hoped she wouldn't notice his slip, or the way he had casually found his hands rubbing up and down her arms, her skin obviously soft, even through the sleeves of her dress.

She laughed, but the sound was humorless. "Ask your brother."

His hands stilled and his brows raised incredibly, a bit taken back. How long had she realized it was him? He wanted to ask, but decided against, choosing to focus on her words at present. His heart skipped a beat and he wondered if Francis already made his attentions clear. He hoped he wasn't giving any part of the tumult of questions he had away and replied, "Ask him what?"

"...Why he has to be such a moody, arrogant arse," she said quietly, looking up at him tentatively through her lashes. She was sulking but still his lips quirked and the corners lifted, and watched as her pouted lips faltered as she tried to hide the smile in her eyes from her mouth.

"By the way, we are half brothers; just so you know," he replied with a raised brow. "Nothing in common, save our father."

She scoffed, "Really? Nothing else in common?"

"You disagree?"

" _Very_ much so," she told him with a small smile. Her eyes were shining and Mary looked so stunning when jubilant.

"I will tell Francis of your...discontent."

Her smile turned wry. "Don't bother." A sudden silence fell over them, with –it seemed—neither quite knowing what more to say. For Sebastian, words were on his tongue, threatening to spill. _How have you been? Why did you never write to me? Did you miss me? Do you know I thought about you everyday?_ He wanted to say them, but wasn't quite sure how, suddenly terrified of what she would say.

Slowly, Mary released a breath. It seemed the moment and chance had passed. She turned to walk away.

He didn't want her to go just yet. His mind scrambled frantically, then cleared. "And, I will bring back your dog," he said quietly. She paused.

She turned back to look at him, and for another moment he was graced with looking at the gorgeous lips that looked so plump and soft. He felt his heart stutter within his chest again. She gave him a chagrined look, the same one he remembered, before turning. He watched as she walked back towards the castle, leaving Sebastian alone.

Slowly, he redirected his gaze to the woods again, his jaw working as he realized something he hadn't dared say to Mary.

He stared at the wood's lining, heart palpitations slowly regulating, tension working its way through his body, and set his jaw. The dog, Sterling, probably entered the woods because it smelled the blood.


End file.
